


Paris with Love

by Lisacreature



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: 1890s, Alpha Gladiolus Amicitia, Alpha Ignis Scientia, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Foursome - M/M/M/M, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Noctis Lucis Caelum, Omega Prompto Argentum, Paris (City)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26669041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisacreature/pseuds/Lisacreature
Summary: Noctis, Ignis and Gladio have been exiled from respectable London society and have now made themselves temporary residents in the beautiful city of Paris, where they meet and fall completely in love with Prompto.
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia/Noctis Lucis Caelum/Ignis Scientia, Gladiolus Amicitia/Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 2
Kudos: 55





	Paris with Love

**Author's Note:**

> Another self-indulgent, Omegaverse piece mixed in with my desire to visit Paris again someday when this entire mess is over with. Anyway, please enjoy this first chapter, kudos and comments are much appreciated :)

Moving to Paris from London was an open declaration to the world for it screamed, ‘Look at me, I am so scandalous that England cannot stand me!’ The French were a little more accepting and inviting to scandalous Englishmen and women, they delighted in their positively puritan manners on sex and of course loved to make them blush. However, their own French scandalous equivalents tended to be sent south to Marseille or, if their behaviour was truly atrocious, Rome or one of the French colonies, or perhaps even New York if they could stomach the food.

Noctis was one of those said scandalous Englishmen, an Omega of great social esteem who had been cast out from the respectable London society after the sudden and very improper discovery of his illicit affair with both his Cambridge graduated tutor, Ignis Scientia, and his buff bodyguard, Gladiolus Amicitia, a man who had a talent for dodging physical bullets but certainly not social ones. How the three were discovered was most embarrassing for all three members, as well as their families. It happened at the beginning of The Season, a usually colourful and joyous occasion where the most noble families revealed their marriageable children to the monarch and grand parties play out into the night. There are dinners, balls, operas and races to attend in London and the perfect place to find a suitable match. It was in the Duke’s Hall off of Regent Street, where the threesome were caught in a rather cramped cloakroom with Noctis presenting his impressive flexibility. It was not long after, that the flushed threesome were packed off and away on the next train from London to Paris, their luggage the bare minimum and their accommodation hastily arranged at the Hotel d’Alsace. It was a standard procedure for the hotel staff to receive flustered telegrams from across the channel in the dead of night, after all, at least half of their rooms housed naughty princes, kinky heiresses and a few romantic sweethearts.

Upon arriving in Paris Noctis breathed in deeply the scent of coal fires, perfumed flowers and corked wine, a very different scent to London’s tobacco smoke, overflowing brewery taps and dog shit. The early morning sunlight illuminated the surrounding buildings in a rose tint and the sandy coloured stone looked so similar to those in Bath and Oxford that it served as a sharp twang of homesickness deep in his gut. It was another reminder that he could no longer be welcomed home, at least not without a gaggle of journalists chasing after his tail. He had wanted to tell his father and he never meant for him, let alone the entire population of the upper class of Great Britain, to discover his affairs and certainly not in the way it had been revealed. However, Noctis was as Ignis described him, a ‘saucy minx’ and could never help the passing urge for a heated tryst somewhere in public. He couldn’t help it, he loved the danger of possible discovery for it sent a delicious spike down into his groins and made him leak…he was basically a bit of a slut (something Gladio often called him in a guttural way). But now he was an exiled Duke in Paris, doomed to live out the rest of his days in ostracised debauchery. At least he had his Alphas with him for though others, including his father, begged to differ, Noctis, Gladio and Ignis were all in love with each other, as individuals and as a unit – a pack as Gladio had said and Noctis would rather throw himself into a pit of venomous, man eating snakes rather than give either of them up. Perhaps his father would have preferred him to do that, rather than live on with the shame that his only child was no better than the Omegas that worked on Drury Lane.

They left Gare du Nord in a hailed down black cab, the driver wearing a pinched look, one eye and a pipe between his weathered lips. It was decided that Ignis should be left to negotiate destination and fee, his French was impeccable and his demeanour perhaps even more delicious to both Noctis and Gladio. Gods, Noctis hoped that the old man’s sense of smell was as shrivelled up as his skin, for some slick may have slipped out. Perhaps he could convince Ignis to speak French to him later in bed…

Ignis gestured them into the cab and so they climbed in and drove through the city. Cab drivers, in Noctis’s humble opinion, whether in London, Paris or Delhi, all seemed to either have a death wish (possibly due to unsatisfactory sex lives) or rather wished to murder as many pedestrians as was possible. Whatever the cab drivers true intentions were they still managed to arrive at the hotel in perfect timing. Ignis handed the man the correct number of francs and no sooner had the coins fallen into his pockets he was galloping down the boulevard towards either death or his next customer.

‘Well, I suppose we better check ourselves in,’ grunted Gladio, he hoisted the two cases onto his shoulders with minimum effort and ascended the red, carpeted stairs two steps at a time. Damn, thought Noctis, why did his Alpha’s have to be so enticing whilst in public.

Checking in at reception was handled just as swiftly as the cab driver by the ever eloquent Ignis, his eyes as sharp as steel as he listened intently to the instructions from the receptionist.

‘Merci Monsieur.’

And up into the lift they went, the gilded gold grating sliding across the doorway and the floors flew past them at an incredible speed. There weren’t many guests or residents in or awake at this time, but Noctis caught sight of a couple in fine silk dressing gowns wandering the corridors searching for that elusive breakfast service that had been advertised. Finally, the lift came to a smooth halt on the top floor and they were led to the only numbered door in the entire corridor, number 20, again like the gratings it was painted in a warm gold that hinted to the luxurious accommodation within.

They bade goodbye to the lift conductor and then stepped into their suite, which was to be their new home for the foreseeable future.

It was elegantly designed in the typical Versailles style, the plaster cornices detailed plump cupids, fruits and dolphins in a strange array that held up the gold chandeliers. The sash windows opened out onto a decently sized balcony which looked down onto the street below. There was no kitchen but there was a dinning room, a table the size of a gondola and a bowl of fruit at its centre, Noctis couldn’t help but think of having a few alternative meals at that table, something more akin to his smutty desires. There were three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a study and of course a living room, all of which were designed beautifully with plush carpets and rugs, silk drapery and textured wallpapers. The suite was more akin to a room at a palace rather than a hotel, but Noctis was certainly not complaining for he had heard of many other stories of respectable society exiles who found themselves on foreign shores, not all stories ended in luxurious hotel rooms.

‘Now what do we do?’ asked Noctis, his voice barely above a whisper.

Gladio looked to Ignis, the moral compass and emotional support of the three.

‘Now we adapt my prince,’ said Ignis, making sure to drop in their endeared nickname for him.

‘I suppose that means we better unpack,’ said Gladio and with another grunt, he carried the luggage away into one of the bedrooms.

Noctis still felt uneasy in this strange new land where the language was much faster and throatier than English, the food better and the city so much more beautiful than London – and yet, this didn’t feel like home. His home was across the channel where his father still told him ghost stories on cold winter nights and London lit up like a shrouded jewel in the spring, home was where his mother was buried at Insom Hall, underneath the willow tree just by the duck pond. That was his home, a place which he had so wanted to share openly with Ignis and Gladio,

Ignis, a man who always had a sixth sense for Noct’s moods reached an arm across and wound it tight around his slim waist, his fingers stroked the fine under-linen that lay beneath his coat. He then bent down and softly kissed the top of his forehead, his lips brushing against the midnight black hair that was stylishly ruffled.

‘We will do this together my dear, no looking back.’

Noctis nodded wordlessly and wrapped an arm around his tall Alpha, his scent was of black tea and vintage Loire valley wine, a warm comfort to his travel sore senses.

‘It will be okay.’

Gladio came out of the bedroom soon after and joined the hug, wrapping his arms around both Ignis and Noctis, and for the first time since leaving London, Noctis felt safe and secure, though he had no direction at all for his life, nor any certainties for his future (in either London or Paris) he could at least be assured that his two Alpha’s will always remain loyally at his side.

* * *

Sitting at the base of Notre Dame Prompto was able to watch the world go by through the sketch of a pencil or a flick of paint. There were many who traversed the old, medieval streets to reach the grand doors of the cathedral, most were tourists from the different corners of Europe and beyond (if they were rich enough). There were some who came to seek religious clemency, to unleash their greatest of sins within the confines of the narrow confession box. However, the majority were here so that they could later boast to family, friends and whoever else who would listen that they had been to Notre Dame. Often, Prompto would catch these people usually practising what they will say about the cathedral before they even left the holy site.

The British would chuff and chautel over the eccentric gothic architecture and boast that their St Paul’s cathedral was far more refined for a modern city.

The Americans liked to shout loudly about how old everything was, from the doornails to the gargoyles, everything to them could be defined as ‘old’.

The Italians were the complete opposite to their American counterparts for instead they would sniff at the age of the site, after all, their capital city was littered with ancient relics, so a medieval church was nothing particularly special to them.

And of course, the Germans, they were the most organised with a library of handbooks, phrase books, guides and maps galore all in their packs. The Germans were usually the most knowledgeable about the site compared to any other tourist, unfortunately they often had the misfortune of being stuck in said books even when they were inside the cathedral.

There were of course other tourists, travellers as well as locals, but they tended to steer clear of the tourist trap that was Notre Dame and its square. Prompto was not in the business to seek these others out, they had no interest to him for they were as tight as a ducks backside.

Nope, Prompto was an artist that specialised in the tourist trade, he’d whip up a quick portrait or sell some premade art pieces of different spots of Paris; the pictures of the delicate scaffolding, otherwise known as the Eiffel Tower, being the most popular.

Prompto had a spot that he always made sure to grab before the cafes and restaurants opened for breakfast, it was a decent spot beneath a cherry tree that provided beautiful petals that fell into his hair as well as casting shade from the harsh summer sunshine. The square was popular with street vendors, other artists and beggars all of them working for the francs inside every tourists pockets, still they were all more honest than the cutpurses and pickpockets that prowled the crowds. The two groups, the honest and the dishonest, tended to keep their distance but sometimes tempers boiled even in the coldest of winters. 

It was now May and the petals had mostly fallen from the tree and either perched themselves in his poorly combed hair or in the river Seine behind them. Across the way from his station there was a flavoured ice cart which was already forming an orderly queue. Around him people were beginning to cluster about his stall, pointing and smiling at his art pieces which made him smile with pride, who needed an entire art gallery dedicated to them when the real people on the streets below could enjoy the same kind of art at a much cheaper price.

Prompto had already earned a fair few francs that morning, having created three self portraits of three American sisters who had travelled in from New York. The girls had giggled and teased each other and neither of them could sit still for very long, but Prompto still managed to grasp their likeness on paper, much to their parents approval. Sometimes, Prompto would wonder upon where his sketches and paintings ended up, maybe in a scrapbook or framed on a mantel piece or maybe thrown into the river if the model later felt insulted by his artistic vision, either way he didn’t particularly care for as long as he earnt enough francs to pay his rent then that was fine with him.

‘Excuse me, but how much do you charge for a group portrait?’ asked a well-polished Englishman whose French was just as strict as was his teaching no doubt.

Prompto glanced up from his sketchpad and his eyes widened for he was met by three men that must have been royalty for their looks were far better chiselled and refined than any other human he had ever met. The man, an Alpha, who had asked the question had storm clouds for eyes, a sharp nose which a pair of spectacles perched upon and a posture that hinted towards his respectable background. He looked like an ice sculpture but stoked a fiery blush across Prompto’s cheeks. Taking in a cheeky lungful of the man’s scent he could detect a hint of mint and dark chocolate, he was delicious.

Looking to the other two men and Prompto’s heart continued its gymnastics routine with more somersaults, the other Alpha appeared to be the epitome of perfect masculinity, he had muscles almost bursting out of every seam in his finely tailored suit and his face, though scarred, was still just as handsome. The Omega was also not to be sniffed out, for his skin looked as white and delicate as fine bone china but his black mane of hair seemed incredibly soft. These other two were just a little too far away for him to get a sneaky scent of.

Prompto theorised that these three must hail from some small European kingdom or principality somewhere, that was the only reasonable explanation he could think of.

‘Ah, erm, two francs for a simple sketch, five francs for a painted picture.’

The handsomely spectacled man look slightly affronted and it took a couple of seconds to realise that Prompto had spoken in English rather than French. Oh no! He had insulted his most beautiful customers!

‘Your English is very good for a Parisian,’ the man said, this time in English.

‘My apologies my good sir, I sometimes slip in between languages, I did not mean to insult or question your own skill.’

The man chuckled and, as if like the chime of a dinner bell, the two other men of equal beauty walked over to his stall and Prompto’s heart thundered even louder within his ears.

‘No, not at all, it makes a pleasant change from being called roast beef. But, might I ask who taught you English?’

This conversation, which has started as simply between trader and customer was now turning towards the personal in a way that made Prompto quiver with both delight (for who could blame him, he felt like the lucky sunflower attracting all the butterflies) and yet at the same time he felt a spike of nerves he only felt when instinct told him to run.

‘My father, he was an American from San Francisco.’

‘Ah, that makes sense.’

No it didn’t, Prompto thought to himself, nothing about this whole situation was making much sense and although Prompto could stare at their perfectly sculpted faces for the whole of his life he also really needed to make a sale.

‘So, what would it be sir?’

‘My apologies I seem to have gone off track. We’ll have the painted portrait if you please,’ the man then turned and gestured to the two others who had been lingering by a nearby stall, ‘Noctis, Gladio, come.’

Whilst his customers regrouped Prompto went to reposition his wobbly chairs for the three men and then gathered his paints.

‘If you would kindly take a seat sirs.’

The smaller, black haired man who possessed a rich sweet scent, like a bouquet of roses and a hint of dark chocolate, sniggered to which the much bigger man with the scarred but still handsome face, seemed to smirk at too. Prompto blushed for he was certain that he was the root cause of their humour.

‘Noctis,’ the other man, the one Prompto had been speaking to, chided.

‘Sorry Iggy,’ said Noctis, he then pulled on his sleeve and whispered in his ear, Prompto didn’t know what it was he said but it appeared to prompt a small, affectionate smile from him. Why did Prompto get the sense that they were whispering and laughing about him?

Prompto cleared his throat, ‘Right, erm what may I call you by?’

‘I am Ignis and this here is Noctis and the one at the end is Gladio.’

‘What may we call you by?’ asked Gladio, his tone deep and gruff and made Prompto’s own knees shake.

‘Prompto, my name is Prompto…now hold still!’


End file.
